


Untitled Canadian Shack Ficlet #1 (Wes/Gunn)

by Rheanna



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Apocalypse, Canadian Shack, Ficlet, M/M, POV First Person, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-31
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rheanna/pseuds/Rheanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Strange how the need to record persists, even now, when everything else is gone.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Canadian Shack Ficlet #1 (Wes/Gunn)

Strange how the need to record persists, even now, when everything else is gone. Clumsy pencil-marks in a child's exercise book. Outside, an expanse of whiteness; inside, one small ivory rectangle, balanced on my knee. Room enough for a few sentences each day.

A world of things left to say. No time or space left to say them.

*

Words are precious; a non-renewable resource. We use them sparingly, recycle where possible.

"You think they got out of L.A. in time?" Gunn asks.

"I'm sure they did. They've probably been held up somewhere. How are the supplies holding out?"

"We still got enough. Your leg any better?"

"Much. Thank you."

"Hey, Wes. It stays dark for half the year up here, right?"

"Yes."

"So what's that light in the east?"

"Probably nothing. Just one of the pipelines burning."

Simple questions, and every answer a lie.

*

"Daddy had a cabin," Cordelia said. "The IRS repossessed it, but I guess it's still there. I mean, it's not like the developers are about to move in."

"And definitely not after the apocalypse," Fred pointed out reasonably.

Angel cradled the child closer, arms rigid. Looked at me.

"Gunn and I will go ahead," I said. "You can follow later."

I was in charge. I was supposed to be in charge. If I had made better choices --

Too late now.

*

The light in the east is not fire; the glow is too constant and too bright as it illuminates Gunn's face each time he moves to the shack's only window. He knows it is not a fire.

He knows the true state of affairs in regard to our supplies, too: they are stored outside in the lean-to, where I cannot go. Food is not a problem -- we brought enough for five adults and an infant -- and we are surrounded by mile upon mile of water in handy solid form. But when the last of the wood is burnt, and the flame in the stove gutters and dies, so will we.

"Don't sweat it, Wes," he says. "We got enough."

I wish I believed him.

*

I have learned a lot since we arrived here.

I have learned that there is nothing more profoundly sad than a child's teddy bear, lying in the corner, without a child to hold it.

I have learned that the winters here are cold enough to freeze fuel. Today, Gunn brought the snowmobiles into the hut. They rest against the wall by the stove, nestling against each other, handlebars locked together like lovers' fingers entwined.

I have learned that warmth is warmth, and an embrace is an embrace, and that it is more important that love is given freely than who gives it.

I have learned it is impossible to use a snowmobile with a broken leg.

*

Today, Gunn burned the teddy bear.

*

Today, the light in the east grew brighter again.

*

Today, he said, "I'm not leaving you here. I won't leave you," and I believed him.

***

The snow is deep, and the earth beneath hard, like iron, making a burial impossible. He empties the tank of the second snowmobile and douses the body. It is frozen in the attitude of supplication in which he found it, half a mile from the shack.

He watches the blaze until it has died completely; then, returning to the shack for the last time, he pins a note to the door. The message is written in dull pencil on a page torn from a child's ruled notebook:

_'I am going east. Follow me.  
Gunn.'_


End file.
